


You come crashing in

by SecondSecret



Series: You want a (revolution) [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Capella, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3624852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondSecret/pseuds/SecondSecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a man with plans. Run an activist a capella group. Find a summer internship where he can promote a society with freedom and opportunity for all individuals. Create campus accountability around sexual assault. Perform choreography without tripping over his own feet.</p><p>Finding out his cynical, alcoholic assistant pitch is in love with him does not fit into any of those plans.</p><p>(companion piece to "bigger than your pride's worth, currently works as a stand-alone but will converge later. Set in the same universe as "with your thirst and with my hunger," but can be read without it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. freshman year (pre-t&h)

Michel Enjolras, only child of Louise and Anthony Enjolras, had never wished for siblings. He would have preferred to have them, but it would have been a waste of emotional energy for a wealthy only child to indulge in selfish longing. There were siblings separated by foster care, by illnesses that their viciously wealth-driven health care system charged too much to treat, by parents who threw out their own children for their sexual orientation or gender identity. Compared to that, his loneliness meant nothing. He dedicated his emotions first to raging at a system that made a mockery of American values like equality and opportunity, and second to gaining the knowledge and skills he needed to tear that system down.

Finding his brothers, in spite of not looking, was the best thing that ever happened to him.

\--

“Uh, this is an all-male group.”

Michel narrowed his eyes. It was arrogant for the boy behind the table to assume he was there to audition when he was just there to post a flier, but that wasn’t worth his anger. What angered him was the joke about his appearance: he wasn’t embarrassed to have delicate features and a propensity to blush, merely infuriated by the implication that femininity was _amusing._ He had barely opened his mouth to say as much when a gentle voice said, “don’t, he’s talking to me.”

He turned to see a small, slim, visibly DFAB person with short hair and a patient expression. “I am male,” the stranger told the audition panel tiredly.

“Uh, right. Look, you do what you do, I got no problem with it, but the vocal quality of our group requires, y’know, male voices. Maybe try a coed group?”

“How _dare_ you try to determine someone else’s gender identity for them,” Michel began heatedly, but the small boy shook his head.

“They aren’t worth trying to convince,” he said, and walked out.

Michel followed him.

“Thank you,” said the boy mildly, “but that wasn’t necessary. Go audition.”

“I wasn’t even auditioning, but if I were, I would never be in a group that denied the right to audition on such an _absurd_ basis.”

“You don’t think I should just audition for a coed group?”

Michel frowned. “Other men have the right to audition for all-male groups. Why shouldn’t you?”

The boy replied with a small smile and an outstretched hand. “My name is Combeferre.” He didn't volunteer his first name.

“Enjolras.”

 

They slipped into friendship so smoothly Enjolras barely noticed it happen. Combeferre was calm and curious where Enjolras was fiery and focused. He shared his values but not his approach, which Enjolras appreciated. He also shared his fondness for puns.

It took less than a month of friendship for Enjolras to come to his room (Combeferre always left the door open) and say, “let’s start an a capella group.”

Combeferre raised both eyebrows and set his book on the desk. Combeferre read everything he could get his hands on. Being his friend had expanded boundaries Enjolras hadn’t even realized were narrow -- Enjolras found missions and drove them home, but Combeferre was the one who took the time to attend the school’s public lectures and theatre performances, to listen to opinions he disagreed with (and destroy them with a few well-chosen words.) So Enjolras waited now, fingers poised on the edge of Combeferre’s desk, to hear his words.

“If you were anyone else,” Combeferre said, more to himself than Enjolras, “I wouldn’t take you seriously.”

Enjolras always did what he said he would do, but he didn’t need to point that out. Combeferre knew it already.

“I’m not quite sure we have the,” Combeferre paused, worked his teeth against his lips, “people skills isn’t quite right. You certainly have charm.” After a moment, he turned his eyes from the desk to Enjolras. “Warmth.”

“So we find someone with warmth.”

Combeferre shook his head slightly, but not in refusal. “Well. Let’s discuss details, then.”

\--

He met Tomás Courfeyrac during the freshmen production of Rent. After rehearsal, Enjolras sat mapping out stakeholder engagement strategies for a campaign he was running. Courfeyrac, still in full Angel costume, plopped down beside him. “If you’re here to hit on me, don’t,” Enjolras warned without lifting his pencil from the paper.

Courfeyrac laughed. “Don’t worry. I heard you already made Mimi and Collins cry.”

Enjolras frowned. He had certainly glared at both actors when they tried to proposition him, but he had meant merely to dissuade, not to harm. There was no use saying as much to Courfeyrac, though. He could not apologize for an action that he intended to carry out many times in the future, and if he could, Courfeyrac was not the one owed an explanation. “You call them by their characters’ names?”

“I’m not great with names. You’re a good Roger, though.”

“My voice is ill-suited.” Who could he send to talk to the wealthier constituents in the northeastern neighborhoods? “I made Your Eyes sound like a ballad.”

“Yeah, a ballad that’s going to have the audience bawling. Your Eyes is a crappy song, anyway. Never understood why he didn’t stick with One Song Glory.”

Enjolras added an additional name to his paper. “We aren’t meant to understand the inner monologues of characters as actual songs.”

Courfeyrac laughed. It was a warm, round sound. Enjolras glanced at him but kept his pencil to the paper. “I dunno about Roger, but I am _damn_ sure Angel actually burst in there singing and banging drums.” He tugged off the wig and ran a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Kind of sucks that they’ve got me playing Angel, though. I mean, she’s great, but did only cis dudes audition?”

Enjolras set the pencil down and faced him fully. Courfeyrac had the demeanor and musculature of a future frat boy. Angel was a role that required stage presence more than singing prowess, but what little Enjolras had heard him sing had been decent. He certainly had warmth; Enjolras had overheard the director describing him as, “the heart of the production, just like Angel!” He had also flirted with every single member of the cast and probably most of the tech crew, but he seemed to do so respectfully enough.

“Have you ever committed an act of civil disobedience?” Enjolras asked.

“I might have started a small fire at an abortion clinic once,” he boasted.

His eyes narrowed. He picked the pencil back up.

“They were waving around signs with pictures of mutilated fetuses!” Courfeyrac protested. “These women are already going through a traumatic choice, they don’t need to be emotionally manipulated by idiots trying to control their bodies!”

“So you set the anti-abortion signs on fire.”

“Just two of them.” His voice had the same satisfaction Enjolras’s housecat showed when presenting Enjolras with a fresh kill.

“Would you like to help me form a trans-inclusive a capella group focused on activism?”

His eyes lit up. “You know, I really would.”

 

Courfeyrac’s involvement was, of course, contingent on Combeferre’s approval. It came easily, for the two got along beautifully. Courfeyrac cheerfully spoke Spanish with him for hours to help Combeferre practice, heatedly debated gender equality without ever tripping over Combeferre’s personal sore spots on the subjects, and radiated generosity and affection with everyone he met. They became three as easily as they had become two, Courfeyrac filling their spaces and rounding their edges.

\--

Technically, Enjolras met Grantaire before he met Courfeyrac, but he took longer to enter Enjolras’s awareness as anything other than a drunk who seemed to go out of his way not to believe in anything.

Enjolras and Combeferre came to a rehearsal for one of Courfeyrac’s musicals and sat in the chairs when it was over, debating whether they could recruit anyone from the musical.

“It seems unlikely that we’ll manage proper recruitment before next school year,” Combeferre pointed out.

Enjolras sighed. Combeferre was usually right. “Proper, yes, but if we recruit an entire class from next year’s freshmen, we’ll fail to properly guide the younger class.”

“Who are you recruiting for what?” asked Grantaire, plopping into a backwards sit in the seat in front of them as if he had been invited to the conversation.

“We’re forming an a capella group,” explained Combeferre, who had always been too polite for his own good.

“I could join an a capella group.”

Enjolras scoffed, irritated more by his blitheness than anything else. _“You?”_

“Why not me?” He raised both eyebrows. Enjolras had never met a man so skilled at making the arch of a brow look like the tossing of a gauntlet. It might benefit him to master the skill himself, someday.

"Your flagrant lack of enthusiasm, for a start."

Grantaire bounced while still backwards in the seat, which took more grace than Enjolras had. Then again, basic dance sequences took more grace than Enjolras had. "Please can I be in your top secret boy band, can I can I can I?"

“In our second conversation,” they had, at that point, only had three conversations, but all had been lengthy and memorable, “I seem to recall you mentioning that you were involved in boxing, fencing, swing dancing, ballroom dancing--surely I’m missing something.”

“Yeah, but I quit all of those.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Dude, you’ve never even seen me in action. I’ve got perfect pitch, I can memorize a song after hearing it once, I’m a _damn_ good singer--”

“He is a damn good singer,” Courfeyrac confirmed. “Best dancer in the ensemble, too; never misses his steps even though he misses most of his rehearsals.”

“Even more reassuring,” said Enjolras dryly. He didn’t look at Courfeyrac. Neither did Grantaire. His eyes were fixed on Enjolras, difficult to pull away from. “And how drunk is he at cast parties?”

“That’s not fair, those are cast parties,” objected Grantaire.

“Dude has a point,” agreed Courfeyrac.

Enjolras kept frowning. “And it isn’t just a matter of singing. We’ll be dedicating our performances to furthering various causes, none of which I expect you would believe in.”

“Oh, definitely not,” he agreed, still infuriatingly blithe, “but I believe in your ability to further any cause you decide to.”

That, he did not say blithely; he said it with firm conviction, and Enjolras weakened. He had not yet learned just how convincing Grantaire could be, but this first trace of sincerity in something other than cynicism was compelling. “If you’re such a good singer,” he challenged, “prove it.”

Grantaire grinned. “Sure.”

And then, because he made no sense, he stood up and left.

“I’m sure he found that amusing,” said Enjolras, as annoyed with himself for taking Grantaire’s bait as he was with Grantaire for baiting him.

“Never really sure what’s going on with R,” Courfeyrac allowed. “He’s a fun dude, though. Also he agreed never to call me The Name Which We Do Not Speak as long as he gets to call me whatever else he wants. Doesn’t even mind that I can never remember his first name.”

Courfeyrac’s low standards for humanity worried him sometimes.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were debating how to handle music arrangement when Grantaire sauntered back in, holding a large guitar. He dropped into a cross-legged position with such boneless grace that Enjolras was, reluctantly, impressed.

He strummed skillfully for a few seconds, and Enjolras had opened his mouth to call him out on the absurd prank of showing off his guitar talents for an a capella audition when he sang, _“I saw them drinking every vine, they told me the last was like the first. But they came upon no wine that tastes so good every day as thirst.”_

Enjolras closed his mouth and listened. Grantaire kept his gaze fixed on Enjolras until the final chord. This time, the lifted eyebrow was not a challenge but a question.

Enjolras swallowed past inexplicable dryness. He knew, objectively, that it was a lazy song choice, more musically interesting than vocally challenging. His voice was strong, deep, and aesthetically pleasing, with pitch that did in fact sound flawless and remarkable breath control given that Enjolras had twice seen him with a cigarette in hand, but most of what he had demonstrated had been guitar skills. There was no reason to feel like his voice had sucked all the moisture from Enjolras’s mouth. “Do you understand,” his voice was also dry, “the definition of a capella?”

His shrug was slow and deliberate. “Sure, but I didn’t think you had a three-person vocal accompaniment rehearsed.”

“I also find it remarkable that your response to concerns about your drinking habits would be a song about _whiskey and wine—”_

“I assume you’ll mostly be singing Michael Jackson songs about healing the world?”

“If you aren’t going to take this seriously.”

“Taking things seriously isn’t in my nature,” he drawled. “At least I didn't come up with an ode to how golden your eyelashes are.”

Enjolras tensed. He was used to mocking comments about his appearance. Sometimes they came from a place of envy, and he acknowledged that fitting classic Western ideals of beauty was a privilege in their racist, superficial society. More often, they came from a place of misogyny or desire.

Grantaire abruptly backpedaled. “Sorry, that was a dumb joke, it’s just my go-to song, okay? That and Elvis. My voice kind of jives with white guys singing other culture’s music styles, you know?” He cracked a self-effacing little grin. Courfeyrac, who Enjolras had forgotten was there, made a sound of agreement. “Look, what do you want me to do? Sing another song? Do a vocal warm-up? Yodel?” He yodeled, his voice effortlessly wheeling through high octaves.

“He is good,” Combeferre observed. It was true; the yodel alone had demonstrated he had more raw talent than any of the three of them. That just irritated Enjolras more, because he could have shown that in the first place. “And we need a baritone.”

Enjolras glanced at Courfeyrac, who said, “he does riffs when he’s just goofing off that take me two hours of practice. Plus he’s hilarious.”

Hard work and dedication struck Enjolras as more significant than raw talent and a good sense of humor. He looked at Grantaire’s earnest, intent gaze. “I’ll give you a try,” he decided.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's audition song is "Juramidam" by Nick Mulvey.


	2. junior year, November (t&h chapter 11, Monday)

Enjolras had grown expert at tolerating Grantaire’s frequent but brief disruptiveness, but he could not tolerate Grantaire showing up drunk to rehearsals. He put up with it for the first ten minutes, still riding the wave of goodwill from Grantaire giving an incredible performance two days before (Grantaire’s true performances always poured a mingled flood of pride and frustration over Enjolras—he was so talented, _why did he waste it?)_ before saying tersely, “Grantaire, I need to speak with you after rehearsal.”

Grantaire didn’t even respond with one of his joking flirts; he just shrugged and continued his antics.

When rehearsal ended, Joly raised his chin. His voice trembled slightly as he said, “there’s something we think you should know. We don’t want to make a big deal about it, but,” he faltered.

“He dumped Eagle,” Grantaire interjected.

Courfeyrac spun on him. “That’s not funny,” he spat.

“No,” Grantaire agreed darkly. “It really isn’t.” Then, in an act of insolence shocking even from him, he pulled a flask from his coat pocket and lifted it to his lips.

Enjolras stopped him with a hand on his wrist. Grantaire looked at him like he wanted to argue, but barely met his eyes before he shoved the flask back.

As the group bustled to put their things away, Joly slipped to Enjolras’s side. “Please don’t be hard on R,” he whispered. “He’s just upset because he loves us.”

Enjolras didn’t get a chance to respond before Jehan and Feuilly swept to Joly’s sides, each taking one of his hands as they left the room. Bahorel followed, hand on Joly’s shoulder. It was just as well; Enjolras didn’t know what he would have said. He waited for Bossuet to exit, flanked by Courfeyrac and Marius. His friends’ unwavering support for one another was just one of the many reasons that they made him glow with pride and fierce love.

Grantaire lingered behind, grumbling at the zipper on his backpack. When Enjolras turned to him, he lifted his head immediately, eyebrow raised in a challenge. “Bring on the lecture,” he prompted, lips curled in bitterness and defensiveness. “Or let me assist you, since that’s my job--I’m disrespectful, I’m useless, I’m giving Joly one more thing to stress about when he’s already--” his voice cracked. He shrugged hard, expression stormy and distant. “Maybe distracting him is the only use I have.”

Enjolras detested when Grantaire talked about himself that way. He especially detested using Joly, who they all knew to be Grantaire’s dearest friend, as an excuse to poison himself. “That logic is pathetic,” he informed Grantaire frostily.

His laugh reminded Enjolras of a beer bottle shattering against a wall. “It suits me, then.”

He jammed his backpack onto one shoulder, then stood, fiddling dully with the keychain that Feuilly had made him. Feuilly had made keychains for all of them, on the engineering and design center’s 3D printer, and they all wore theirs with pride: a flag for Enjolras, a moth for Combeferre, a pawprint for Courfeyrc, a pencil for Jehan, an upraised fist for Bahorel, a less elaborate version of the caduceus staff for Joly. Bossuet had lost or broken at least three eagle keychains and Feuilly continued making more.

Grantaire’s was shaped like a pair of shoes. Probably dancing shoes of some kind, but Enjolas didn’t know enough about dance to identify them.

When Grantaire spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “It’s just so stupid. Not _them,_ they’re my best friends and they get to decide what--but they both just want each other to be happy, and this is making both of them miserable--not that they’ll _say_ they’re miserable, because they’re always smiling, even though Bossuet can’t finish a degree that he couldn’t afford in the first place and Joly sometimes can’t sleep at night because he’s convinced he’ll stop breathing in his sleep, and _good for them_ for being balls of sunshine anyway, they’re amazing, but this is just--” his voice cracked again.

“Stupid?” Enjolras supplied.

Grantaire clutched the keychain like he wanted to break it. “They just love each other _so much.”_

Without hostility, Enjolras replied, “I suppose you’re going to say love is pointless and romantic relationships only end in pain.”

Grantaire looked up from the keychain. The naked heartbreak on his face made Enjolras want to recoil. “Love,” he said in a tone of helpless defeat, “is probably the only thing in the world that I believe in.”

Enjolras’s cold disapproval melted so abruptly he startled himself, as if there had been a landslide inside him. This wasn’t Grantaire’s typical stubborn cynicism and drunken ranting. This was simple grief at his friends’ loss.

He started when Enjolras touched his shoulder, but surprise lightened the harsh lines of misery bracketing his mouth, so Enjolras didn’t remove his hand. “They’re fortunate to have your friendship.”

Grantaire stared for what felt like a much longer time than it probably was before he sighed. “We both know that’s not true, but I’m trying.”

“It is,” he retorted, frustration rising again. Grantaire was incapable of accepting praise; he either taunted it with grandiose parodies of agreement, or he rejected it outright. “Though you would be more help to them sober.”

Grantaire snorted and jerked his shoulder away. Enjolras dropped his hand immediately. Grantaire looked unhappy again. “I get that you can save the world without a bottle in your hand, but I can’t be much help if I’m in fetal position.”

“If you’re unhappy, there are other ways--”

 _“Like what?_ Because I’ve heard plenty of--AA is bullshit, keeping yourself active is--I box and fence and do four times, sorry, _types_ of dancing and I did _gymnastics_ until I got too built--and in case you haven’t noticed, my ‘support network,’” he threw dramatic quotation marks in the air, as if it was a phrase tossed at him frequently, “should really be focusing on the two who actually need the support.”

“We don’t have a _quota--”_

“--you _think that,_ because you don’t get that--” he shook himself abruptly, not just his head but his whole body. “Oh _god._ Ignore me. I’m too drunk not to talk and I’m too sober not to feel. I’m not going to show up to rehearsal drunk again, okay?”

It wasn’t the first time he had shown up to rehearsal drunk and it certainly wasn’t the first time he had promised not to do it again. A few stern words could dissuade him for a while, but it had never lasted. Enjolras thought to point this out, but it would be a waste of energy; he would scoff, Grantaire would cajole, and eventually Enjolras would give him a chance. He always did.


	3. junior year, November (t&h chapter 11.5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Some information that might be helpful if you haven’t read “With Your Thirst and With My Hunger."
> 
> Michel Enjolras: junior, American Studies major, tenor 2  
> Sophia “Charles” Combeferre: junior, Cognitive Science major, mezzo-soprano, nickname Hombre  
> Tomás de Courfeyrac III: junior, Women’s Studies major, tenor 2, nicknames Couch and Tomcat  
> Grantaire: junior, Philosophy major, baritone  
> Lesgles “Bossuet” de Meux: senior (joined same year as the sophomores), Political Science major, baritone, nicknamed variants of Bald Eagle  
> Jiayi "Joly" Lee: sophomore, Cellular and Molecular Biology major, tenor 2, nicknames Santa and Rancher  
> Aung "Jehan" Prouvaire: sophomore, between Environmental Science and Astronomy major, tenor 1  
> Rahim Feuilly: sophomore, applying for Archeology major, baritone  
> Marius Pontmercy: freshman, undeclared major, tenor 1, nicknamed variants of Duckling  
> Bahorel: second-year law student (joined same year as Marius), Immigration Law, bass, nicknamed Buttercup

When Marius finally found the girl he had been mooning over, Enjolras was relieved. He didn’t understand how Marius could be convinced he had discovered true love based on a moment of eye contact, but the cloud of bliss he now floated on was better than the haze of woe he had been moping under.

(Once, when Enjolras was in a particularly sour mood because a black woman had been sent to a psychiatric ward by a white police officer who didn’t believe she was a business woman and the usually-diligent Marius was staring at the floor instead of rehearsing his part on _Hey Ho, So it Goes_ , Enjolras had snapped, “infatuation is making you as useless as Grantaire!” Courfeyrac had been mad at him for nearly two hours, Bossuet for nearly two days.)

Over breakfast, Enjolras mentioned his relief to Courfeyrac, who said, “yeah, he’s happy. So I’m happy. For him.”

You don’t look happy,” Enjolras hazarded.

“I just had a little crush on the kid, you know?”

“Oh.” It was common for Courfeyrac to experience attraction, but rare for him to express romantic interest. Enjolras, who had never experienced the former and wasn’t clear on what the latter even meant, had no words of comfort to offer, but he reached across the table to touch Courfeyrac’s arm.

Courfeyrac shrugged hard, a gesture he must have picked up from Grantaire. “Not a big deal. Plenty of cute fish in the sea, after all. Do you think Bossuet’d feel better about the Joly thing if I hooked up with him?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and withdrew his hand with a fond smile. There was the Courfeyrac he was used to.

 

“I didn’t realize Courfeyrac was interested in Marius,” he said to Combeferre later. He didn’t ask if Combeferre had known. It was safe to assume.

“I didn’t see the benefit of mentioning it,” Combeferre replied, marking an answer on his neurobiology homework. His voice was mild, but Enjolras had long since learned the minutiae of his expressions.

“You disapprove?”

“You don’t?” Combeferre teased, smiling up at him with unhappiness still lining his eyes. Enjolras waited. With harshness that might have seemed abrupt to someone who didn’t know Combeferre as well as Enjolras did, he said, “I just don’t understand why so many wonderful people are interested in _Marius Pontmercy.”_

“Who else is interested?”

“Oh, Enjolras,” was his entirely uninformative response.

\--

On Fridays, they had potlucks for dinner, Jehan bringing pizza from the school farm, Courfeyrac cooking because Combeferre was inexpert and Enjolras incapable, the others contributing if they could.

“Perhaps we should invite Éponine,” Combeferre suggested, voice softening the way it always did when he mentioned her name. His regard alone earned Éponine Enjolras’s admiration, though he had rarely spoken with her himself. “She contributed greatly to our last concert,” he added, as if he really needed to justify inviting the girl who had attended more of that year’s on-campus concerts than several of their members had.

“I second that,” said Bossuet, who had moved into Courfeyrac’s extra room over the weekend. He stayed over often enough that they hadn’t realized the move had been due to Joly breaking up with him (at least, Enjolras and Courfeyrac, distracted with their visiting parents, hadn’t. Combeferre might have guessed and merely remained silent. Enjolras now regretted not having been able to offer comfort at the time.)

“Yes!” Courfeyrac whipped out his phone and started tying. Moments later, the GroupMe buzzed with his message.

 **Courfeycat:** _Ponine makes our mics live = Ponine eats at our place on Friday I don’t make the rules I just shout them_

 **Courfeycat:** _all in opposition will face either a firing squad or Hombre’s wrath and I left my firing squad in Guatemala_

“Your family’s from Honduras,” pointed out Bossuet, who had checked his phone at the same time as Enjolras.

“We travel,” Courfeyrac replied.

 **Not Ophelia:** _What makes you assume I don’t have more interesting things to do on a Friday night?_

 **Courfeycat:** _Bring ’em!_

\--

No one ate at the table; they filled their plates and then scattered on the floor and couches. Grantaire, as usual, drank more than he ate, and came for his second helping when Enjolras went for his third. Grantaire’s face was worn and drawn, but went bright and open when he saw Enjolras piling his plate with the grilled chicken, papaya salad, and sticky rice Grantaire had bought. “Oh, do you like it? It’s from this itty-bitty place, everything tastes like salt and boredom except that and the pork dumplings. I thought about bringing those too, but with four people who don’t eat pig carcass, it felt kind of shitty.”

“Of course I like it.” How was that even a question? It was a universally acknowledged truth that Grantaire always brought the best food to their potlucks, treasures from tiny restaurants none of them had heard of. (It was a view generally insisted upon that he also brought the best wine, but Enjolras didn’t drink alcohol.) The simple, obvious statement brought a disproportionate level of pleasure to Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire hadn’t looked happy all week.

Enjolras flicked a glance at Bossuet (laughing on the couch with Courfeyrac next to him and Marius next to Courfeyrac, Éponine and Combeferre cross-legged on the floor in front of them) and Joly (sprawled on the floor with his cane propped against the wall, sneezing and rubbing watery eyes, circled by the other sophomores and Bahorel with space in the circle for Grantaire.)

“It’s a bit fucked, isn’t it?” Grantaire asked, audible only to Enjolras. “It’s great that everyone’s trying to be helpful, but way to highlight who got which kids in the divorce.”

Enjolras knew he was guilty of this. Bossuet, with his wit and resourcefulness and laughter in the face of misfortune, openly admired Enjolras in spite of not always understanding him and was a delight to discuss political theory with. Enjolras liked Joly well enough, but Joly had never seemed inclined to have social interactions with him. He wasn’t sure why.

“That isn’t quite accurate,” he objected. “Bahorel is close to both of them, and Combeferre--” Combeferre was closer to Joly than Bossuet, and was either sitting near him because he recognized the divide and wanted to combat it, or because he wanted to be next to Éponine. Neither disproved Grantaire’s point. “And of course you’re dear to both.”

Grantaire snorted. “I don’t think Baldy even likes me much,” he muttered, looking far too unhappy about such an absurd untruth.

“You don’t think anyone likes you,” Enjolras retorted. That or he claimed to be universally adored, especially by women he wasn’t interested in, see-sawing so sharply between self-aggrandizement and self-loathing that Enjolras was surprised he didn’t give himself emotional motion sickness.

“I’m pretty sure Santa likes me.” He said it lightly, but the smile tugging at his mouth was one of his rare sincere ones, not the half-curve he usually donned. “For one thing, whenever we’re on break he’ll text me things like ‘still like you!’ with more exclamation marks and smiley faces than I knew one person could produce without literally transforming into an emoji on  stick.” He called that last part loudly enough for the room to hear, and Joly beamed proudly before sneezing.

“So that’s your grand total,” said Enjolras skeptically. “One friend.”

“One friend who likes me,” he corrected. Grantaire often insisted upon distinctions that made no sense to Enjolras. “I mean, you don’t like me, and we’re basically friends by now, right? By sheer Stockholm if nothing else?”

Enjolras was shocked. Before he could respond, Grantaire whipped around and addressed the group. “Hey! If we split into Team Enjolras and Team R and battled to the death, how fucked is Team R?”

“We’re godda die,” Joly moaned.

“No, wait,” said Bahorel. “True, you’d be sick and R’d be drunk and Boss’d have his foot caught in a bear trap somewhere--”

“Why is a bear trap on a college campus?” asked Courfeyrac.

“I’d find a way,” Bossuet assured him.

“--but you’d have me, and I kick more ass than all these losers.”

“Jehan could take you,” Feuilly said.

Bahorel eyed Jehan, who was sprawled on the floor next to Joly wearing fuzzy pants and a rainbow-dolphin t-shirt. “Yeah," they judged. "We’re godda die.”

“Nophelia!” Grantaire addressed Éponine. “Can I count on you to fight on my side?”

Éponine raised both eyebrows and leaned back, carefully avoiding physical contact with Combeferre as she did with everyone else. “Why would I do that?” she asked. “Most of the people I like are on Team Enjolras.”

Grantaire, Bahorel, and Joly all clutched their chests and groaned dramatically. “I consider myself an exception to the ‘most,’” said Bossuet, “since I’m sitting on this side of the room.”

“You’ve made your point,” Enjolras told Grantaire. If even Bossuet viewed the division Grantaire had identified, it had to be there.

“What point?” asked Grantaire. “I just wadda doe how badly we’re godda die.”

“Dot fuddy,” Joly grumbled.

“Ducky and I could probably seduce you to Team Enjolras,” Courfeyrac mused, eyeing Bossuet speculatively.

He snorted. “Dude, you already have the brains and the looks and the firepower. Let R have the man in the bear trap.”

“Baldy’s team is guaranteed to lose anyway,” Grantaire pointed out. “It’s all the maple syrup in his blood.”

“Fuck you, Yankee scum,” said Bossuet cheerfully. “The US has tried to invade Canada like, three times, and we kicked your asses every time. Fuck, we occupied DC and burned down the white house.”

Enjolras, resigned to this conversation lasting, went to sit between Jehan and Feuilly in silent protest of the divide. Grantaire went to the couch, kneeling beside Éponine. “I buy you Chinese food,” he said plaintively.

“And we have all the fun people!” Bahorel pointed out.

“Courfeyrac’s fun,” objected Marius loyally.

“Thank you, Marius,” muttered Combeferre, loudly enough that Enjolras could hear it from the other side of the room.

Éponine tilted her head consideringly. “What the hell,” she decided.

“Yes!” Joly whooped.

Bahorel, Grantaire, and Bossuet jumped to their feet--Grantaire catching Bossuet when he tripped over Combeferre--and danced in a circle in the center of the room, chanting,  _“We have Éponine, we have Éponine!”_ as Joly dissolved into giggles and sneezing, clutching his stomach.

Courfeyrac waited for the chant to die down before asking, “are we not missing the obvious? R would be on Team E.”

“Being on R’s side usually means opposing R,” Bossuet retorted. Joly nodded enthusiastically.

Coolly, Enjolras pointed out, “I still have Combeferre.”

Bahorel, Grantaire, and Bossuet froze.

“Why does hypothetical be always die,” moaned Joly.

 

Enjolras waited until dinner had ended and everyone but the residents of the house had left to voice what had bothered him since it had come up. “R doesn’t think I like him.”

Bossuet snorted. “Can’t imagine why.”

He frowned. “He doesn’t think you like him either.”

“Well, he’s a dumbass. But you know he’s wrong, right?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” said Bossuet. “I can’t say the same for you.” He walked into Courfeyrac’s spare room, leaving Enjolras staring after him.


	4. junior year, December (t&h chapter 14)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said this fic currently works as a standalone, but I suggest reading this alongside Chapter Fourteen of “With Your Thirst and With My Hunger.” The chapter can be read without the rest of the fic, and you get to see more of Grantaire's perspective on the whole thing.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: mention of sexual assault, discussion of mental illness

“It’s an outrage and we have to do something!” shouted Courfeyrac without preamble as he stormed into their house.

Enjolras and Combeferre, studying on the couch, both looked at him expectantly.

“So you know how Cosette works at the sexual assault center?”

Enjolras had not known that. Combeferre nodded.

“That Cabuc asshole _raped_ a girl at one of their parties and the administration is just fucking not doing anything? Like, they asked him to send an _apology email_ and they _asked her to also send an apology email_ like WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”

“The first thing we should do is talk to the administration,” Enjolras decided.

Combeferre raised both eyebrows. “Do you expect that to work?”

Enjolras and Cosette were both children of politicians; it was a disgusting truth that their word would count for more than the actual victim’s would. “It doesn’t have to work,” Enjolras replied. “If it doesn’t, we’ll be able to organize protests with firm proof that simply speaking to the administration won’t be enough.”

“They want to keep it quiet because they’re cowardly shitheads,” snapped Courfeyrac. “We’ll show them the student body can make some noise.”

It went without saying that Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras would represent the ABC, but Combeferre suggested they include a fourth. Feuilly, with his harsh classes and two part-time jobs, would be too busy. “I’ll ask Bossuet,” Enjolras determined. He was the oldest officially registered member, he essentially lived with them at this point, and like Courfeyrac he had charm and cheer.

When he texted Bossuet, the response took a few minutes.

 **From Lesgles:** _It’s nice of you to think of me, but shouldn’t an actual officer take care of this?_  
**From Enjolras:** _It wouldn’t be fair to ask Feuilly. He has too much on his plate as it is._  
**From Lesgles:** _…you DO have a fifth officer, you know._ _One who happens to be pretty damn good at ranting at people?_

Enjolras snorted. Grantaire was certainly eloquent, but it was impossible to create change without believing in the possibility of change. Furthermore, Grantaire had been drinking even more frequently now that Bossuet and Joly had broken up.

**From Enjolras:** _If you don’t feel comfortable accompanying us, I respect your decision._  
**From Lesgles:** _Thanks._

**\--**

“What are you getting Grantaire for his birthday?” Enjolras asked.

“You know you are the only person in the world who calls him that,” Bossuet said, while sitting on the living room floor, drumming his knuckles against the back of his laptop.

“What are you doing?”

“It keeps freezing up and making alarm sounds,” he said with an unconcerned little shrug. Bossuet had cracked four phones, and his laptop died every few months.

(Grantaire insisted that he had angered the hamsters who lived in the laptop. When Enjolras had raised an eyebrow, Grantaire had grinned at him and said, “oh, was it the sheep?”

“The…sheep.”

“Hey, I’m no fool! I know about RAM!”

“As soon as my computer is up and running, I’m going to start a Youtube series,” Bossuet informed Grantaire, “where you talk about things like computers to people who major in the topic, and they aren’t allowed to say anything.”

“Says the guy whose boyfriend is convinced he has to point his bed in a certain direction to balance the electromagnetic frequencies in his brain,” taunted Grantaire, because Joly and Bossuet had still been together at the time.)

“But anyway, I dunno. I was thinking now that he’s twenty-one I could get him a bunch of fake ID’s so he can keep convincing people to give him alcohol illegally. That’d crack him up.”

Enjolras had asked everyone what they were getting him. Feuilly was painting him a mug, but Enjolras had no artistic skills. Jehan and Joly had plucked him fresh apples from a local orchard a few months ago and called it an early birthday present, but it was too late for that. Bahorel was buying foam to make weapons for their weekend sword fights. Courfeyrac was “gonna find the most disgustingly optimistic poster I can find, we’re talking _everything happens for a reason_ levels of think-happy-thoughts. Oh, or maybe one of those giant magnets about waking up every morning and being grateful! With the rainbow texts and silly fonts!” Marius didn’t know yet. Combeferre had just fixed Enjolras with a knowing look and said Grantaire would love anything he gave him, which wasn’t helpful at all.

Enjolras would have asked Bossuet sooner, since he was one of Grantaire's closest friends, and living with them. But Feuilly, who was more attuned to these things than Enjolras, had commented on there being recent tension between Grantaire and Bossuet. Enjolras hadn't wanted to poke any bruises.

Whatever tension this was, it wasn't visible as Bossuet lifted his head from the computer and smiled up at Enjolras. “You realize he’d be over the moon if you just like, wrote him a card or showed up to whatever he drags us into doing."

“That isn’t enough,” he said in frustration.

(The trouble was that Grantaire always gave the best, most thoughtful presents. For Enjolras’s last birthday, he had given him a collection of strange but delicious fair trade teas, spicy chai and mango rooibos and chrysanthemum blossoms that unfurled in the glass. With a nervous rub at the back of his neck, he had told Enjolras that chrysanthemum blossoms were good for “mental things.”

They never talked about those. On paper, he and Enjolras both had forms of depression, but their experiences were entirely different. For as long as Enjolras could remember, he had been unhappy. Not heartbroken, not miserable, just unable to experience joy without remembering all the people who didn’t have it. His doctor called it dysthymia, but it had never seriously disrupted his life—for one thing, he had never lived without it; for another, with all the ills of the world, why _shouldn’t_ he be unhappy? He never took medication and it had been a long time since he had seen a therapist, though he sometimes watched the easy cheer of friends like Courfeyrac and Bossuet with a bewilderment that bordered on yearning.

Grantaire had major depressive disorder, spiraling into dark moods where he ranted at no one and everyone, drinking tremendously to numb something deeper than Enjolras had ever experienced. As far as Enjolras knew, he also never took medication or attended therapy, but that seemed like a mistake on his part.)

“You spend more time with him than I do. What’s something he really wants?” Enjolras asked.

For some reason, that question made Bossuet laugh. “You could record yourself singing something?” he suggested.

“He sees me sing all the time. What’s special about a recording?”

“Coupons? Like, ‘take you out to dinner’ coupons.”

“That isn’t a real present.”

“When you say real, are you talking like, money? Because you can’t go wrong with expensive dance shoes. I can find out what he’s worn holes in this semester, there’s always at least one pair.”

“Yes,” said Enjolras gratefully. “Yes, that would be perfect.”

\--

The ABC, plus a handful of Grantaire’s other friends, went swing dancing on Grantaire’s birthday. Enjolras, who had an evening seminar, showed up too late for the lesson portion.

Luckily, Grantaire was a skilled and eager teacher. His advice was joking but patient; he made light of the dance itself, but his love of it lit his eyes. He never mocked Enjolras, either for not knowing what to do or being too clumsy to do it; although, because Grantaire’s own steps were so sure and his grip so careful, Enjolras could follow along without nearly as much clumsiness as usual.

For the second dance, Combeferre and Enjolras partnered. Enjolras was two full heads taller than Combeferre, and suddenly his gracelessness was apparent—he nearly fell on top of his friend twice. They mutually agreed that Enjolras would go back to dancing with Grantaire, and Combeferre looked only too happy to return to dancing with Éponine. He in fact kept dancing with Éponine until they both left. Enjolras and Grantaire, meanwhile, kept dancing together until _everyone_ left.

Eventually, the student in charge of the music told them it was time to leave. Grantaire pouted. “Aw, but it’s my birthday!”

“The last dance was supposed to be like an hour ago,” she pointed out.

Enjolras shared Grantaire’s regret. He didn’t see Grantaire like this nearly often enough, sober and smiling and certain. He wanted it to last.

But he merely inclined his head politely and said, “thank you.”

He expected Grantaire to race off to get drunk, as he doubtless had plans to do, but instead he crooked a warm smile at Enjolras and said, “dancing that much makes me hungry, and you missed my birthday dinner. Join me?”

Enjolras hadn’t realized it until the music stopped, but he was hungry, and also overheated, his cheeks flushed and his shirt clinging to his sweaty back. “Only if we go somewhere that doesn’t sell alcohol.”

“What are your feelings on sticky rice?” he asked as they walked to the door. He grabbed their coats, but they came to the unspoken decision that they were both too hot to put them on.

“I didn’t realize it was different from sushi rice until you brought it to dinner,” Enjolras admitted.

Grantaire snorted. “You are _such_ a WASP.”

“Do white Jewish people know more about sticky rice?” asked Enjolras, raising an eyebrow. He wasn’t especially religious, but neither was Grantaire (as Grantaire once put it, _“my mitochondria is Jewish, but my brain believes only in beer and bacon.”)_ Marius, the other white member of the ABC, was in fact a fairly devout Methodist.

Somehow this turned into an extensive conversation about Jewish cuisine in America, which turned into a conversation about how Israeli food was closer to Arab food than European Jewish food, which turned into a conversation about their mutual admiration of Feuilly. By that point, they were seated inside a tiny, rather dirty hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

Grantaire ordered sticky rice with mango and coconut milk and strange crispy rice-looking toppings, sticky rice with sweet patties that he insisted were egg, and sticky rice with lumps of pale purple mush that he identified as taro. All of it was delicious, even if Enjolras had a difficult time balancing some of it on his fork.

“Where do you find these places?”

“Cutting class and staying up late?” he offered with a self-mocking smile. When Enjolras frowned, he relented. “Combination of word of mouth—unlike most of this campus, I actually talk to locals, turns out they aren’t just beggars and idiots, _imagine that—_ and going to tiny interesting-looking places. Jehan actually told me about this one. He’d asked everyone who volunteered at the farm where was a good place to get _khao niao.”_

“What?”

“That’s Thai for sticky rice.”

Jehan was Burmese, but Enjolras had frequent cravings for the Bombay-style masala chai Combeferre made at his house on Thanksgiving, so he supposed it wasn’t fair to be surprised.

He almost voiced his wish that Grantaire would take half the dedication he put into exploring the city and use it for something else, but Grantaire was laughingly contemplating what they had done to turn eggs into a sweet patty, and it _was_ his birthday, so he just smiled and took another mouthful of mango.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beautiful fanart here: http://brightmetalonasullenground.tumblr.com/post/116479492660/my-take-on-the-awesome-you-want-a-revolution


End file.
